


Tyranny of Secrets

by readergirl1013



Series: Falling Into Place [4]
Category: Criminal Minds, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Change of Character History, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Missions, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Past Violence, Silence, Talking, Yugoslav War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3230555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readergirl1013/pseuds/readergirl1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has always had a lot of secrets. Over the years he has been tempted to share them with his team many times. But secrets have a way of seizing control and enforcing silence.</p><p>Five times John almost told his team about his past. And the time he finally did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tyranny of Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the "Falling Into Place" series, prior to "Unexpected", with the final section occurring just after "Rodney McKay's Re-Education". It is recommended to read at least "Re-Education", but not necessary.
> 
> This shares more of John's back-story in the series.
> 
> I want to thank my Beta, Evelyna. You are beyond amazing.

March 18, 2005

They were sitting around a campfire on M3D-433 roasting a couple of small hare-like creatures Teyla called koplu. They looked a lot like hares, except for the small spikes down the animals back. And the fact that it was a lovely pastel green; which had Ford exclaiming about Easter bunnies and egg hunts. He then began to talk about the big Easter feast some of the military were arranging. 

This led to a very confused Teyla. And to McKay and Ford talking over each other trying to explain Easter. Both waxed poetic about Easters past, although McKay focused on the food, while Ford spoke of his family. John simply watched them in amusement.

“You could help you know,” McKay snapped at him.

John arched a single eyebrow, “Why?” McKay’s glare kicked up a notch. “I don’t even celebrate Easter,” he explained nonchalantly.

Ford turned to gape at him. McKay raised his own eyebrows high. Teyla had that ‘Earth people are strange’ look on her face. Again.

“You don’t celebrate Easter, sir?” Ford sounded flabbergasted. It hit John then (again) just how naïve the kid was.

“No.” John said, a bit more harshly than he’d meant to. “Not everyone does,” he softened his tone.

“Most Canadian and American kids do,” McKay observed, eyeing John like his latest puzzle, “Even if they’re not religious.”

“I didn’t.”

“How come sir?” Ford asked eyes wide. “I mean every year after Church my Grandma used to put together a big egg hunt for all of my cousins and me. We’d always have a fancy dinner that night too.”

“Even my parents brought me to a couple of egg hunts when I was young,” McKay added, “And we always went to Church on Easter Sunday. Christmas too, even if we never went any other time of the year.”

Teyla was watching him curiously. 

John hesitated. All of his teammates had shared various parts of their own pasts and childhoods. McKay had spoken of his parents and their… volatile relationship, and his sister Jeanie and their estrangement. Teyla had shared her experiences as a child, growing up under the shadow of the Wraith and of losing her parents- her mother at nine, and her father at seventeen. Ford had spoken basically of being raised by his grandparents, because his dad had walked out before he was born, and his mother had been young and worked three jobs, before she’d died when he was fourteen.

John had said nothing. And now…

He tried to force the words out of his mouth. It was on the tip of his tongue to share that he’d gone to Easter services the first five years of his life. Not because his father was religious, but because he had wanted to keep up appearances. How the only part he could remember was that his mother had hated it as much as he had.

Synagogue with his mom had been much more fun, perhaps because his father wasn’t there. But after… after… 

After. 

He’d never gone back. Never wanted anything to do with anything even tangentially connected to his father. Never wanted to think of the man.

He could feel the words get mangled in his throat. Not yet. Too soon. He couldn’t tell them about his past. About his father, about the foster parents, about his aunt.

He coughed a couple of times. What could he say though?

Suddenly it struck John he didn’t really have to say anything. He slugged back a gulp of water and shrugged, “I’m Jewish.”

At least they knew something.

Of course now he had to deal with McKay squawking about not knowing that, and Teyla’s questions. Ford at least remained quiet.

Ford was a good kid, knew when to keep his mouth shut too. John thought he had a bright future ahead of him.

~~~

August 9, 2006

Five days after Ronon had been forcibly taken by the Wraith back to Sateda and made into a Runner for the second time, he’d walked up to John and demanded to go back. John had shrugged, and held up a finger as he radioed Elizabeth to inform her of the plan. She’d protested- something about it being too soon and Ronon’s mental health. John had countered that it was Ronon’s choice, and if he felt ready that was enough for John; besides this wasn’t Ronon’s first trip back, and he wouldn’t be alone.

After Elizabeth had grudgingly given the okay (after checking with Heightmeyer about it) John had radioed Teyla and McKay to meet them in the Gate Room. Two hours later and the four of them were walking silently behind Ronon on Sateda. 

They’d come in a puddlejumper, at Ronon’s request. John hadn’t asked why. When they’d come through the Stargate, Ronon had directed them to the west. They’d stuck low to the ground, and John hadn’t pushed the engines. McKay had complained about lost lab time until a few hissed words from Teyla had shut him up. Since then they’d mostly traveled in silence, except a few directions from Ronon.

Nearly an hour and a half west from Sateda’s main city, Atteria, Ronon had directed John to land the ‘jumper in a clearing just to the south of a few rolling hills that led into a mountain range. Then they’d begun to walk.

“How much further?” McKay whined, and John resisted the urge to turn and snap at him from his position at the front beside Ronon.

Ronon chuckled bitterly, “Not much.”

It was true. Less than ten minutes later they came into a small clearing where the remains of a small village were. Many of the houses had burned to the ground, but a few still stubbornly stayed upright. 

John felt like he was in one of the old European mountain villages he’d seen on some of his old missions. There were small hints of modernization, but most of the fifty or so homes had clung to the more traditional ways.

“This way,” Ronon said and John followed the larger man easily as they headed through the village.

He paused briefly when something caught his eye. He reached down to pick it up. It was a rag doll, a little larger than his hand, and beautifully made. It was easy to see the love that went into the doll with its delicately embroidered features. Its white dress was stained and ripped, and patches of its brown-black hair were missing, but the bright red over-vest with its blue flowers was in one piece.

Ronon glanced over at him and John handed the doll over without hesitation. “Mountain doll,” Ronon said, voice rough, “In the cities they had the newer, fancy dolls; made in the factories. Out here the only dolls you had were made by your family.”

John nodded; it made sense, “Reminds me of my old doll, Leeba.” He startled even himself by saying. 

Ronon handed the doll back to him shakily, and John discreetly tucked it into his vest while the other man wasn’t looking.

McKay let out a bark of laughter, “You had a doll Sheppard?” He asked scathingly.

John glanced over at the other man, and said unashamed, “Yup, took it everywhere with me.” John did not add that it had begun as a therapy tool.

McKay laughed derisively. “That’s too funny! Oh my God, no one will ever believe this.”

Teyla looked between them with her brows furrowed, and Ronon was starting to look pissed at McKay.

“I do not understand, what is so amusing about John having a doll as a child?” Teyla asked.

“He’s a guy.” McKay said, still chuckling, as if that explained everything.

John rolled his eyes, “On Earth, at least in most western nations, dolls are traditionally considered girls toys. Boys were expected to play with other sorts of toys.”

“That’s stupid.” Ronon said.

Teyla just looked confused, “I do not understand. How is a doll a ‘girl toy’?”

“They teach girls to be moms and take care of babies and stuff,” McKay shrugged.

“And you do not use them to teach boys to be fathers?” Teyla arched an eyebrow.

“No, women typically take care of the house and kids.” McKay finally took notice of the look on Teyla’s face and backpedaled rapidly, “Not that, you know, I think that or anything. It’s just society and… and idiots that think that!”

“You laughed when Sheppard said he had a doll,” Ronon pointed out.

“Well, well, that’s just because it’s so unexpected that a macho guy like Sheppard would have a doll or something considered so ‘girly’,” McKay blustered.

John stared at him incredulously. Teyla had raised both eyebrows in disbelief. Ronon crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at McKay, “I had a doll. A mountain doll named Galin. Does that make me ‘girly’?”

McKay sputtered for a bit before shrinking in on himself and going quiet. He mumbled an apology, and poked at his tablet silently. John looked back at the other two and shrugged before gesturing Ronon to lead on.

“Your doll,” Teyla said after another minute’s silence, “Leeba?” John nodded she’d gotten the name correct. “It was similar to this doll? I would have expected your people to have dolls made in factories, like Ronon’s city dolls.”

John nodded, and found himself saying, “Most were. My Bubbe, my grandmother, made me Leeba. She looked a lot like that mountain doll, but her clothes were different, and she had lighter skin.” 

Teyla nodded, “My childhood doll was dressed as an Athosian warrior of old. My mother made her for me. Her hair was the color of the sun. I called her Sia.”

“Galin wore traditional mountain clothes.” Ronon said gruffly, “My own grandmother made him too. She and my grandfather lived here, in this village. I used to come here every summer as a kid.” He paused for a bit, “My parents lived in Atteria, and the section of the city they lived in was completely destroyed, and I lived in the barracks. I’d hoped that this little village was still here.” Ronon glanced around, “Mostly is.”

“Leeba wore a traditional Hungarian Jewish folk costume,” John said to distract Ronon. “Bubbe was born in Hungary. It’s a country in Eastern Europe, near where Zelenka’s from,” John added, knowing they’d seen that on the map.

“Do you still have Sia?” John asked Teyla.

“No,” Teyla shook her head sadly, “I lost her in the same culling I lost my father in. I had lent her to one of the children while his own doll was being fixed. The boy, and Sia, were both culled.”

John clasped a hand on Teyla’s shoulder briefly, and she gave him a small smile. He glanced at Ronon but didn’t ask.

“I sold Galin,” Ronon admitted roughly. “In those last days I sold everything I had to my name in order to buy Melena passage through the ‘Gate. Not that it was worth anything in the end.” John didn’t ask who Melena was, and glared at McKay when he went to open his mouth. 

“I still have Leeba,” John said quietly, “She’s at my house on Earth.”

“You have a house?” McKay blurted out.

John nodded, “In Palo Alto. It was my grandparents.” 

“You were close to them?” Teyla asked.

“They raised me,” John admitted.

“They raised you?” McKay’s voice was loud. “You never said anything about that! You never say anything!” He accused, “I’ve known you for two years and I know nothing about you!”

John opened his mouth to answer back, and then closed it. He wasn’t sure what to say.

He was briefly tempted to tell them about his mother and his brother, and the monster he once called father. About two and a half years of homelessness. About the woman who dared to call herself his aunt, who had finished destroying him; a destruction begun by his father. About his grandparents, God bless their souls, who had saved him.

He looked away from McKay’s anger and Teyla’s hidden curiosity. He saw the barely restrained grief on Ronon’s face as he stared up at the old house he’d stopped in front of. He couldn’t do it. Not today.

Instead of answering McKay’s accusation, John said, “Today isn’t about me Rodney.”

He stepped up beside Ronon and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. A single tear rolled down Ronon’s cheek.

~~~

September 16, 2006

The day after John had been forced to relive the loss of his last friend on Earth still alive he had taken himself off the duty roster, holed himself up in a secluded tower, and pulled out a photo album and a fifth of whiskey. He didn’t open the album; he simply stared at the cover as he drank.

He glanced up briefly as the door to the tower room he’d holed up in slid open. Teyla, Ronon and Carson. Not McKay. That wasn’t surprising. McKay was playing up his injury for Katie Brown to ‘nurse’.

“Colonel,” Carson greeted him evenly.

“Doctor,” John returned after taking a swig from the bottle, “I’m not on duty, Carson. Don’t fucking ‘Colonel’ me. John’ll do. Sheppard if you can’t manage that.”

“Yes c- John,” Carson stumbled over his words.

“John?” Teyla asked, “Are you alright?”

“Course I am,” John answered, his eyes never leaving the closed photo album.

Ronon snorted, “What’s with the book Sheppard?”

John didn’t answer. 

Eventually Carson did, “It’s a photo album,” he said quietly. Slowly, cautiously, the other three took seats around him. Carson kept shooting him glances as if checking he could stay there.

The two Pegasus natives were silent for several long moments before Teyla spoke up, and said gently, “John, yesterday on M1B-129, you thought me someone else. Holland. I find myself curious about this man; you have never spoken of him before.”

John swallowed hard and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Then he passed the bottle of whiskey to Carson, “Don’t let me have the bottle back,” he told him.

Carson looked down at the whiskey bottle and nodded. John idly wondered what he thought of the request. He returned his gaze to the photo album.

“I don’t talk about Holland,” John glanced at Teyla briefly, “Because he’s dead. Exactly three years and one month ago, tomorrow.”

Ronon put his hand on John’s shoulder, and Teyla bowed her head sadly. “I had guessed,” she admitted, “From your words, but I had hoped…”

John shook his head, “No. I don’t have anyone left on Earth; I’ve told you that before.”

Teyla nodded, and Ronon grip tightened briefly. Carson looked stricken. They all remained silent for a few long moments.

“Do you have an image of him?” Teyla asked him after a while.

John nodded, and reached out for the album with a shaking hand. He flipped it to a page without really looking and pulled out a photo. He handed it to Teyla, and eyed the whiskey bottle by Carson. Carson shuffled it further away.

John thought, seriously, for several long moments of simply opening the album and sharing stories. It was so very tempting, the desire to share. The large photo album began with the day his Bubbe and Zayde had stood beside him proudly as he went to begin OTS and the most recent image was of Lorne and he dressed respectively as Nicky Santoro and Sam Rothstein from the nineties movie ‘Casino’ for their (Elizabeth mandated) act in the annual Story Showcase from last month. The men had gotten a real kick out of seeing their mild-mannered XO cuss out their CO. (Which was why they’d chosen the piece.)

John could tell stories about each of the images, all together it could last for days. Of course he’d end up either in prison or dead if he shared half of the stories contained in the album. This, he told himself, is why he had simply pulled a single (innocuous enough) photo out to show them. 

He fought down the urge to tell his friends about his past, this was not the time. He simply wasn’t in the right frame of mind. Another day, when he could tell them the stories without breaking down, but not today.

“You look so young,” Teyla smiled at the image. “How old were you?”

“That was in late ’98, I was twenty-four,” John sighed. He was only thirty-two now, but felt about one thousand. 

He tapped the image of Holland. “That’s Lyle “Dutch” Holland.” He smiled sadly as he looked at the four smiling faces in the photo. 

“Who’re the others?” Ronon asked after a moment of silence

John frowned briefly, “Me, obviously,” he tapped his own image. He pointed to Dex, “That’s Dominic “Dex” Manning.”

Teyla eyed him as he stared silently at the last man in the photograph, “And him John?” She pointed at the image of the man John’s finger was caressing without conscious thought.

“Casey Mitchell,” John said hollowly. He let out a shuddering breath, “They all died in Afghanistan.”

He replaced the photo in the album and gathered it to his chest. “I want to be alone for a while,” he said voice cracking. Caught in a torrential downpour of memories, he practically fled the room.

Behind him he heard as Teyla said sternly, “Do not follow him Carson. John is a private man, he will tell us of himself when he feels ready and no sooner.”

He heard Carson’s, “But…” before he got out of hearing range. He wanted to be alone when he finally brought himself to look through the album.

~~~

October 20, 2007

John knew he was having a breakdown. He’d locked himself in his quarters and was curled up on the floor of his shower in his clothes as freezing water beat down on him. He desperately wanted his Bubbe. His Zayde. Casey. 

He needed one of them there and telling him that it wasn’t him. That he hadn’t gone on a murderous rampage through his friends’ and colleagues’ nightmares and tried to use their own worst fears to kill them. That his own worst fear had not just come true. That he wasn’t his father, wasn’t his aunt, wasn’t one of his (other) fucking psycho relatives. 

He was sobbing in great heaving gasps as he rocked back and forth, his back touching the metal wall every time he rocked back. He could feel the water pressure surge, the air system start and stop and the lights dim and brighten with every sob. He knew he was out of control, but he. Just. Couldn’t. Stop.

It had been years since he’d broken down like this. Since Bubbe and Casey had died so close together four years before. 

He didn’t notice as the emergency team broke into his quarters. But he did notice vaguely when Teyla and Ronon came into the bathroom and Rodney hovered by the door. Teyla stayed with him, but Rodney and Ronon disappeared briefly and returned with Dr. Keller.

The water stopped. They kept talking to him. There was a sharp prick in his upper arm and he reacted badly, thrashing wildly and attacking blindly.

He wouldn’t realize until the next day that he’d managed to give Keller a black eye and Ronon a bad split lip. He’d stunned Teyla when she’d been thrown off of him into the wall. Rodney had continued to hover and prattle on nervously.

He felt a second, sharper jab in his upper arm and slowly he felt the lethargy of the drugs seep through him. He sensed Ronon and Keller undressing him and then re-dressed him in sleep pants and a t-shirt. John could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness. He’d lost track of time. One minute Ronon was yanking his shirt off and the next they were bundling him into his bed.

“Not… my… father…” John managed to whisper brokenly. He wasn’t sure any of them heard him. But it was important, they needed to know. They had to know. Had to understand. 

“Not… my… father…” He repeated desperately, his voice barely audible.

John reached out a hand and tried to grab one of them. Any of them. He wanted them to stay. Wanted to tell them it hadn’t been him. It’d only been a copy. A fake. He wanted to tell his team everything. To tell them all about… about…

Distantly he felt a small hand, Teyla’s, his mind whispered, slip into his as the drugs took affect and he slipped into unconsciousness.

~~~

January 18, 2008

It had been a long time since John had done something like that, and he was still flying high on the residual endorphins, even though it had been a couple of hours since the quarantine and self-destruct had both been shut down. He was currently laughing and talking with the others in the mess hall, when he saw Rodney walk in.

Reaching up his right arm he went to wave the physicist over. Instead he let out a loud yelp.

“Holy crap!” His left hand automatically came up to grab and support his right shoulder.

“Colonel?” Several alarmed voices said at once. He ignored them as the sharp pain in his shoulder decreased as he lowered it carefully using his other hand to support it.

“John? What is wrong?” Teyla asked, concerned.

“Shoulder,” he said shortly. He used his left hand to carefully begin probing at the injury, but Keller smacked it away. 

“Let me see,” she ordered. She carefully unbuttoned his uniform shirt, and John flushed at the amount of attention he was receiving, not only from his team and tablemates, but from others in the mess.

“Doc,” he began, but Keller simply shushed him.

“Hold still,” she snapped.

“Seriously Sheppard? How in the world did you get injured during the quarantine?” Rodney rolled his eyes.

“Ow!” John whined as Keller prodded him.

“Did you fall on your shoulder today?” She asked.

“Sort of?” He shifted his eyes away.

“Sort of yes or sort of no?” She looked at him in exasperation.

“Uh, I slammed my shoulder into a wall?”

Keller gave him the evil eye at his reluctance to tell her what happened. Teyla gave him away.

“When you were climbing the tower?” She asked in concern. 

John sighed as Rodney immediately exclaimed, “Climbing the tower! What does that mean Sheppard?”

John declined to answer. Teyla looked over at him and sighed at his reluctance before explaining. 

“We were in Rodney’s lab when the quarantine lockdown occurred. John realized that the city was broadcasting an alert beacon, and knew the only way to lift it was in the control room. He broke a window and climbed the outside of the tower.”

“That’s four stories!” Keller exclaimed.

“You’d have needed my password! How do you know my password!?!” Was Rodney’s infuriated contribution.

“How’d you slam your shoulder?” Ronon leaned forward in curiosity.

“Uh, one of the decorative thingies on the tower broke. I ended up swinging into the side of the tower.” John tried to shrug nonchalantly, but now that the adrenalin and endorphin high was wearing off he was feeling the pain and ended up flinching instead. He pointedly ignored the eavesdropping from the surrounding tables.

“Don’t do that,” Keller ordered as she felt along his collar bone and shoulder. At his sharp intake of breath when she hit one spot she sighed. “How in the world did you keep climbing? It’s probably just a severe hematoma, but I want to do an evaluation and take some scans to ensure you didn’t fracture or otherwise damage anything.”

John sighed, “Alright, at least it’s probably nothing this time.”

Keller gave him a sharp look, “You’ve had previous damage to your shoulder joint?”

John looked away briefly before quipping, “What, you don’t have my file memorized yet?”

“It takes up an entire file cabinet of its own, Colonel. And is separated into volumes by year. I’m only up to 1990,” she drawled sarcastically with her arms crossed over her chest.

Ronon guffawed and Rodney snickered while Lorne and Carter hid their grins behind their hands. John flinched lightly, Keller was exaggerating, but not as much as the others assumed. 

He was tempted, briefly, to share some of his more… colorful injuries with them. To share stories about where he had served and different places he’d seen like he’d heard so many other service men do. But with so many others he barely knew listening in, he never would. Well, that and the fact that the majority of his service record was classified. He didn’t want to end up in jail.

“Past shoulder injury, Colonel?” Keller repeated.

“I, uh, I dislocated both as a kid, they healed up fine though. But, in ’99 I ended up badly dislocating my shoulder and cracked my collar bone, had a few other injuries, but that was the worst. I, uh, wasn’t able to get immediate medical attention, and ended up having to have surgery. But, uh, it was my left shoulder, not my right.”

Keller gave him a look, “Alright then, I’ll look up the injuries, but you’re lucky it wasn’t the left shoulder again this time.”

John nodded soberly, “I know.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” McKay interrupted, “How exactly did you dislocate your shoulder? Shoulders? Both of them, really?” He snapped his fingers, “Was there a girl involved? I bet there was a girl involved. Kirk.”

John felt the color drain from his face. Behind his eyes flashes of Aston flew by. Three months of torture and abuse swirled through his mind. The whips, the cane, the chains, the stench. Screams of agony as his body was pulled apart. The rip of his own flesh, the mutilation, the molestation, the sheer degradation. The aching hunger of his stomach and thirst in his throat and agonizing pain of his broken body. He forced himself not to think of it. Not to remember.

Newer memories flashed into the gap. A month wandering through Kosovo at the end of the War. Behind enemy lines, dressed in ill-fitting clothes stolen from some poor family’s clothes line. A shoulder that was constantly in pain and a useless arm; combined with obviously broken ribs. Bombs falling night and day, screaming women, sobbing children, men shouting. Homeless refugees wandering the streets, looking for camps that had room. Bodies of the Albanians that were massacred lay rotting in open mass graves- ethnically cleansed. 

John didn’t realize he was simply staring hollowly at Rodney in the minute or so it took him to pull himself back together. He considered opening his mouth and shoving it into Rodney’s face that he was not the misogynistic womanizer the other man had painted him as. That he wasn’t some slightly flawed, but ultimately whole and wholesome television character. 

But no. Not like this. This was not how his team would learn of his past.

“Classified,” John replied at long last. He turned to Keller, “Come on doc, let’s get this over with.”

Behind him he could hear whispers and rumors break out at the various tables throughout the mess hall. Rodney’s complaints loudest of all.

~~~

December 10, 2008

John tapped his fingers nervously on the scrapbook and file in front of him. He’d put this day off long enough. And he’d shot himself in the foot on P4X-223 as far as any chance of keeping quiet any longer. He’d had to actively avoid Rodney for the last three days in order to get up the chutzpah to do this anyway.

The door chime went off. One, two, three, four, fi- John thought the door open. Rodney and a put out Zelenka. They were early.

John waved the two men into the room and left the door open. The others would be here shortly.

Lorne, Ronon and Teyla arrived at the same time, although from different directions. They were precisely on time. 

Carson arrived a few minutes late, “Sorry, sorry!” He exclaimed. 

John shrugged and thought the doors closed, they were all here now. There were others he’d considered inviting- Keller, Coughlin and Reed. The first because she was the current CMO, the latter two because they’d been on the P4X-223 with him- but had decided against it, he wasn’t close to any of them. The only other person he’d invited, Ellie, hadn’t been able to come due to a mission. He’d tell her another time.

“So…” John trailed off, unsure what to say.

“So are you finally going to tell us what happened to you?” Rodney demanded. “Why your back looks like that?” He finished in a softer, pained voice.

John looked at him and tried to reply, but the only thing he managed to do was let out a strangled, “Yeah.”

Then he just watched the wall over their heads for a while. “I can’t… I don’t… talk about it,” John finally managed to get out.

He sat down heavily at the table, “It’s just, too much, the memories.” He swallowed harshly staring at the tabletop. “You all… you’re my… friends… family.”

John sighed, “I… trust you.” He admitted, “You don’t know how strange that is for me.”

The others were silent but Teyla reached out for his hand. She froze when John flinched back automatically, but continued to reach out slowly and grasped his hand anyways. “John,” she said at last, “I believe I speak for all of us when I say that I am honored by your friendship and your trust in me. I too see you as my family.”

There is a chorus of agreements and nods, and John smiled bitterly, pulling his hand away and folding them in front of him, “Thanks. I… appreciate that. Most of my family wasn’t worth shit.”

“Your family did that to you sir?” Lorne asked quietly.

“Not sir, Evan. Just John for now,” John corrected.

“Of course John,” Lorne nodded.

John nodded back. He remained quiet for a long moment, before beginning what little of the story he could. “Like I said before I can’t, you know, talk about this. Not most of it. I can tell you a little, but most of it I’m going to have to show you.”

The others nodded in agreement. Carson gave him a tremendously sad look; the man knew his medical file all too well. Knew just how early it had begun, even if he didn’t know the details.

“I don’t remember the first time my dad hit me,” John admitted. “The first time I can remember I was three? Four, maybe. He was angry about something, and I was there. He didn’t need to make excuses to himself anymore by that point. He’d been beating my mother and older brother long before I was ever born.” 

John looked out the window, avoiding the others’ gazes, “He back-handed me so hard I hit the wall hard enough to cut my forehead. Then he kicked me a couple times for bleeding on his carpet.”

John stared down at his hands, refusing to look up. “That about sums up most of my first six years. But a month or so after my sixth birthday, everything changed.”

He sucked in a shuddering breath, and remained silent for a long minute. This wasn’t the first time people had found out who his father was. A couple of guys in OTS he’d thought were his friends had found out somehow. They’d told everyone else. After that only Casey would speak to him. It had been the same at his first posting. One of the other guys from OTS had been there too and spread rumors. John had always wondered if those rumors were why he’d been routed into special operations. Maybe, since it was John telling them, it would be different this time. He desperately hoped so.

“What do you know of the Holbrook Virginia Massacre?” John asked at last.

He could see the others thinking about it. Ronon and Teyla obviously didn’t know what he was talking about. Radek and Carson were European, and he doubted they’d even heard of the massacre. Lorne had been the same age as John himself. While Rodney, despite having been 12 and on the same continent at least, had probably heard of the shootings, it was doubtful he’d paid much attention to it.

“Wasn’t that where some guy went loony-toons and shot and killed like a hundred people?” Rodney asked at length.

“He killed seventy-one people,” John corrected. “Only sixty-nine were shot. Two were beaten to death with a baseball bat,” he murmured, memories of his mother’s and brother’s screams echoing through his head.

“Seriously? Why do you even know that?!?” Rodney demanded.

John couldn’t bring himself to answer the accusation, flinching back into his chair. His hands quaked as he opened the morbid scrapbook one of his distant cousins (slightly crazy and very depressed, but not homicidal) had made of the event. He had no idea why the woman had done that, nor why he’d even bothered to keep it. But he had, for some reason. At least now it was coming in handy.

He opened it to the first page and turned the book around so the others could read it.

“MASSACRE IN VIRGINIA, SHOOTER KILLS AT LEAST 60!” Carson pulled the paper to himself to read aloud to the others.

“July 29, 1980

“Gunshots sounded throughout Holbrook, Virginia yesterday. Screams quickly followed. Left behind were the bodies of more than 60 people. The youngest of which was the killer’s own 13-year-old son. 

“Local company owner, Patrick Sheppard, went on a nigh unstoppable rampage throughout the small town late yesterday morning. But his trail of bodies began at home. Oh, John,” Carson whispered in horror.

John stared out the window, “Keep reading.” He could feel the others’ eyes on him.

Carson read, slowly and softly. Voice filled with agony he finished the article, “Sheppard’s younger son, 6-year-old John, was found to be unconscious and badly wounded. Prospects look grim for the young boy, as he was rushed to the hospital immediately. A source inside the hospital states that he is not breathing on his own.”

“I was in a coma for two months,” John didn’t recognize his own voice, he felt as if he was watching himself speak. “I stopped breathing and was on a ventilator for a while. They thought I’d be a vegetable, never wake up or be permanently brain damaged. My father managed to cave in part of my skull,” his hand drifted up without thought to run along the scars on his head.

“John,” Teyla whispered.

“I watched him do it you know,” John found that now that he had begun talking, he could not stop. He was detached from his surroundings, only vaguely aware of his friends surrounding him, “Take the bat to Mama and Davey. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched him beat them, but I knew something was different when first Mama and then Davey stopped screaming. Then I started screaming.”

John didn’t say anything else. There was nothing else for him to say. That was the story of his life with his father. He wasn’t quite ready to tell them the rest yet. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Lorne reached out to turn the page of the scrapbook once he realized John wasn’t saying any more. He watched them read the articles about the rising body count and the community’s hope for a little boy fighting desperately for life.

They were silent for at least twenty minutes as the others flipped through the scrapbook. John continued to stare out the window, slowly dragging himself back to reality.

“John, lad, this…” Carson apparently couldn’t find anything else to say. John shrugged.

There was silence for a while longer, before John managed to work himself up to continuing his story, “After that-”

Rodney cut him off, “There’s more!?” He sounded horrified.

John chanced a glance over at him before looking away again. “Yes,” he said hollowly.

“I was in the system for about two and a half years. I was in eighteen different foster homes in thirteen different states. All of them were some kind of relative on my father’s side. A lot of them were real pieces of crap. Got removed from a few different homes because of abuse, others because I was kind of a holy terror. But it could have been worse. I’ve been through worse.” John stared out the window. There was a bird out over the sea.

“Yes, but that was when you were an adult, John, not a boy!” Carson exclaimed vehemently. “Your father, and your foster parents, they should not have done that.”

John looked over at the doctor, who looked torn between sorrow and fury, “I meant when I was a boy Carson.

“I’m sure at least one of you will recognize the name,” John shuddered, “Edith Aston. She’s, uh, pretty well known.”

“I know of her,” Lorne admitted, “I did a short paper on her for my psych class.”

“Some sort of serial killer, yes?” Radek spoke for the first time. 

“Aye, we studied her in my psychology class as well. One of the few well documented female serial killers,” Carson was frowning. “John tell me you aren’t going to say what I think you are lad,” Carson begged.

John closed his eyes and turned his head away, he knew his silence would tell them all volumes.

“No,” Lorne whispered, sounding ill.

“Oh dear God in Heaven,” Carson sounded as if he were crying.

“Carson?” Rodney sounded scared.

“I don’t understand,” Ronon sounded frustrated, “What’s a serial killer?”

“A serial killer is a person who has murdered three or more people over a period of more than a month with down time between each of the murders,” John recited the textbook definition he had learned.

“Oh. That’s fucked up,” Ronon replied.

John hummed in response. The others seemed surprised he’d been the one to answer the Satedan, but on the team it was normally John’s job to explain any Earth references that cropped up. Besides, he was a trained profiler; he could say the damned definition for a serial killer without freaking out.

John was many things, but he wasn’t fragile.

John looked back out the window again as Lorne explained, “Edith Aston was a serial killer in the ‘80s back on Earth.” He paused frowning, “Or at least she was caught in the ‘80s. If I remember right she’d torture and then kill kids.”

“Aye,” Carson said morosely, John could feel his gaze flicker towards him, “She’d kidnap young boys- only nine or ten years old, I believe- and hold them hostage for months. All the while she’d torture them horribly; I remember reading the medical reports from one of her victims for a class. After she got bored with the lad, if he hadn’t died from his wounds already, she’d kill him. It went on for over twenty years, I believe, before she was caught. John…”

The room was near silent, only the sounds of someone crying softly could be heard. John didn’t look over to see who it was; he was trying to figure out what to say.

“She had me for three months in 1982.” John said at last. There was no point in telling them how she’d actually been his foster parent, “I was eight.”

“I was the one she had when they caught her,” John admitted reluctantly. He was struggling to stay in the moment, it was a long held habit of his that when in painful situations- both the physical and the emotional- he would disassociate from his surroundings. 

“I can’t talk about her at all,” John’s voice was harsh, “But, uh, there’s a few news article in the file, as well as some photos from when they found me and pulled me out.”

He hesitated, “If you just ate, I wouldn’t suggest looking in the file.”

Rodney reached a shaking hand out to pull the file towards him. John wasn’t surprised, Rodney’s curiosity was legendary.

“John,” Teyla sounded as if she were crying, “After you were… found, things improved correct?”

John looked over at her and offered a hesitant smile, “Yeah, they did. I went to live with my Bubbe and Zayde after… Uh, after.”


End file.
